


Devilled Mushrooms And Anglerfish Eggs

by AlmesivaMoonshadow



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 3, Far Cry 5
Genre: Abusive Parents, Amoral Attorney, Amorality, Angst, Angst and Porn, Angst and Tragedy, Australian Slang, Bathroom Sex, Biblical References, Broken Families, Christianity, Comedy, Crime and criminals, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Dark Humor, Gay Sex, Hitmen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Killers for the Hire, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Male Slash, National Geographics, One Night Stands, Orphans, Pre-Cult John, Pre-Rook Buck, Quickies, References To Patrick Bateman, References to Depression, Seedy Bar, Sexual Humor, Sexual Tension, Smut, Stranger Sex, Strangers to Lovers, Two Sadists Meet, crackship, sloppy sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-08 20:24:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15937625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmesivaMoonshadow/pseuds/AlmesivaMoonshadow
Summary: John Duncan - playboy, top-notch lawyer in Atlanta, only heir to the vast fortune of his adoptive parents, notorious bon-vivant and eligible bachelor used to have a wild, promiscuous, party-loving, loose side before he became John Seed, the herald of God and redeemed sinner - and Bambi "Buck" Hughes was a notorious killer for the hire - a maniac, a madman and a savage - taking hits worldwide for the highest bidder (and for the sheer pleasure of it in equal measure) after being dishonorably discharged from the military, in search of employment and a way to indulge in his ingrained, unhinged sadistic tendencies. One night at a shady bar downtown, they meet by chance and discover they're more similar then they could've possibly imagined.





	Devilled Mushrooms And Anglerfish Eggs

 

 

_Somewhere in Atlanta, Georgia, US._

 

 

* * *

 

 

John wasn't exactly certain how he got here in the first place, somewhat perplexed with himself.  
Not his usual type of venue - full of smoke, the odor of sweat and urine from the male restrooms.  
The kind of place old Papa Seed would've visited back in the days - but not the type Mr. Duncan would.  
Nowadays, he was accustomed to the high-end, glossy, expensive and exclusive - cocktails and cognac.  
Lavish jet-set parties thrown after each court case won - and he did indeed win them pretty often.  
But, there was a sense of sheer anonymity, namelessness and discretion to all of this, he assumed.  
No branded, long saloon dresses, no tuxedos, no tall crystal glasses, no chrome cars parked about.

 

 

 

 

But, here - he could actually just have a cheap drink without being recognized or pestered.

 

 

 

Success came with a steep price, John concluded bitterly - from one side, he had everything he ever wanted and much, much more except the luxury of privacy - everywhere he went in this damnable city, he'd be stopped, congratulated, his courtesly mundane jokes laughed at like they were the most original thing on the planet even though they very clearly weren't, welcomed with a pat on the back, his suits complemented alongside his newest Rolex watch - the millionth addition to an already vast collection, invited in for drinks and all the doors in Atlanta were both figuratively and literally opened for him - every office, every building, every board-meeting hall, the legs of every wanton secretary and every curious lift-boy and the occasional wannabe, bored, idle wealthy, middle-aged housewife who's husband was accused of a triple homicide and a case of sexual assault tied to an incident with a foreign Indonesian maid who couldn't speak good English or defend herself because of immigration laws and bad policies - but, John digressed - ironically, he tried to escape poverty all his life desperately, and now that he finally he has, he was visiting these run-down, lower-class, less then reputable establishments he would otherwise scoff at as beneath to find a thing he desperately lacked otherwise;

 

 

 

Peace and quiet.

 

 

 

Of course he couldn't get it though, not even here, long since after dusk, eleven o'clock at night - and the bar was caught before closing times - the sickly yellow halogen light flickering on occasion shining a dim, claustrophobia-inducing light on the drunken, half-asleep patrons slobbering at their respective tables while a game was being broadcasted on the outdated Tube-TV screen hanging from the wall above the admittedly very greasy, unkempt bar, a fly buzzing somewhere next to counter - he couldn't hear the volume and he didn't care to, quite frankly, taking a chug of his beer with only one other man seated not far from here. In his thirties by the look of it. Brown hair. A beard. A colorful tattoo peeking out from the deep cut of his Hawaiian shirt. A necklace. A cigarette. Seems like a certain type of men inhibited this place. John couldn't help but feel a tiny bit irked at the similarity in their respective appearances even though he still showed up in his tailored black pants and a light blue button-up. Yes, that's his low-key, less eye-popping suit of the bunch. Still not too low-key, he assumed, consider how badly attired everyone here seemed. Especially the person he was observing. Man looked like a bad 80's sketch starring Burt Reynolds busting narcs. Ridiculous and tacky. Well, at least the comparison amused him for a brief blip.

 

 

 

And then the idiot spoke.

Good god, why?

Why can't anyone leave him the fuck alone nowadays?

 

 

 

_-"A bloke like yourself - plan on sitting there all night like some kind of doozie, or what? Bud Light? Now, that's just depressive, innit? Fancy the old Boag's Premium. myself."-_

 

 

 

Heavy accented and nearly impossible to understand on the spot.  
John was aware he looked at the man like he was partially insulted by being addressed.  
Truth of the matter - yes, yes he was - living his lifestyle wasn't exactly easy or a walk in the park.  
All the business and talk and chatter and promotions and receptions and socializing and everything.  
Paperwork upon paperwork upon paperwork - all the cases and files and documents and clients.  
Almost leaving him to imagine what life would've been like if he was never adopted.  
Taken from Rome by the Duncans and brought here - if he stayed with his brothers.  
Joseph and Jacob - would his whole existence been more peaceful - smooth?  
Would he feel more fulfilled - would he feel less out of place then?  
Would he still have this incessant need to wonder and get lost?  
Be left alone - be left to his own devices and blend in?  
Or would he have the same doubts he has now?  
Would anything change in the first place?

 

 

 

John couldn't tell - the answers to his questions were illusive like the light of God.

 

 

 

_-"Excuse me - what?"-_

 

 

 

John managed, with an uncharacteristic rudeness that didn't befit him.  
On other days, he would've been polite to the point of being sleazy, even to himself.  
That was simply his own manner in public - but tonight he was tart and crass and rough.  
He didn't owe jack-shit to this individual - some overly chatty, random tourist no doubt.  
John Duncan would've heartily shaken the man's hand and passed him his personal info-card.  
Offered him a full megawatt, overly warm and familiar smile - the toothpaste commercial type.  
But John, as in just John - with no surnames attached only wanted to get fucking plastered.  
And hope nobody recognizes him out here enough to stick around and talk his ear off.  
And then possibly proceed gossiping about his escapade around Atlanta later.

 

 

 

That sounded good right about now.

 

 

_-"A Yank, ain'tcha? Don't go there much, 'cept on business. Didn't know make them so pretty up in the Seppos."-_

 

 

The man spoke again, overly bold, with an dialect John could assume is Australian.  
And of course he was an American - the fuck - they were in America, after all.  
This dude was either drunk out of his wits or just comedically stupid.  
He couldn't quite tell - wondering what type of business he meant.  
Guy didn't look like a business type by any capacity imaginable.  
If anything, he appeared to be kind of homeless - unkempt - slobby.  
A taxi-driver or a common scammer - a street thug and small-time pickpocket.  
If John knew anything, he knew business types, because he was one and worked with many.  
But this one was a liar, that much he could tell, almost wanting to slide him some change and ask him to leave him be.

 

 

_-"Seppos?"-_

 

 

 

John questioned in confusion, unfamiliar with the slang term and what it meant exactly - he was well-traveled but preferred to utilize English in a relatively clean and undiluted manner.

 

 

 

_-"Septic tank."-_

 

 

The man answered with an overly cocky grin, making him realize the septic tank actually referred to America, leaving Jon with the desire to stand up and slap this asshole.

 

 

_-"Now, Sir, I don't know how they do it "Down Unda'" and quite frankly I don't care finding out, but where I'm from, men prefer to be left alone to have their liquor in relative peace."-_

 

 

 

John only partially snapped, trying to keep his cool, hissing and over-articulating his words through his teeth pushed together firmly and attempting to keep his voice down like Mama and Papa Duncan always taught him, but in this moment trying very hard not to disregard their teachings, give into his anger and very much make a scene that could cause a blemish on his reputation as that one lawyer who has bar fights with foreigners after-hours and possibly have a lawsuit on his hands afterwards because he might've hit the bastard too hard - ironic - but really, tonight he was especially tense and easy to rile up with the smallest of things - sometimes, John's rage had the tendency of peeking through like a bottle of coke shaken up one too many times and then left to bubble up and explode upon opening - his lust too, in Biblical terminology - he understood the problem of pre-martial sex and took it upon his soul to repent - eventually, one day, soon - the Duncans always told him he was a sinful child by default - filthy and damaged from the very day he was born into this world and that only their education, upbringing and correctional measures could change that and turn him into a better, stand-up young gentleman - joke's on them, because it didn't change much - he was still here, squirming in his chair, finding that he became unusually excited at the prospect of breaking this guy's jaw, feeling like he just had a dinner consisting exclusively of hallucinogenic, deviled mushrooms and couldn't quite focus on anything but the figurative, imaginary blood.

 

 

 

Yes.

 

 

He'd always say yes to everything - even the uncomfortable situations one usually avoids.

 

 

_-"Who said I wanted your liquor, mate? So, a bible-belt lawyer, huh?"-_

 

 

The man playfully clanked his beer bottle with his own, switching seats in order to be closer to him, winking, taking John somewhat off guard on the spot.

I mean, he dressed nice - sure - but he didn't exactly have his profession inked to his forehead that obviously, did he?

 

 

_-"How did you know?"-_

 

 

He asked, feeling a little stupid at the moment.  
Exposed and caught like a hapless criminal on a camera recording.  
Here he was, trying to hide out, and this asshole sniffs him out on the spot.  
No hints or clues or anything - just out of the blue - guesses half of his entire life.  
Next time he should just show up dressed like a fucking construction worker or something.  
Maybe smear cheap cologne all over his damn face to better fit in with this sorry crowd.  
At this rate, he was getting more and more frustrated by each passing second.  
The main way he tended to get rid of said frustrations was usually sex.  
No viable candidates here, but it was a habit he very much practiced.  
Sure, it was wrong and sinful and bad and John's made mistakes.

 

 

 

But, then again - so has God.

 

 

 

_-"I have my ways, doll. Cheers! Bottoms up!"-_

 

 

 

The Aussie lifted his bottle with a cheeky grin before taking a loud, sloppy gulp himself.  
Doll - why was he giving him so many endearments - was he mocking him?  
Was he being ironic, sarcastic, jokey or just flat-out bizarre?  
Was he some private investigator sent to derail his pristine calling?  
Was he just playing mysterious for the sake of playing fucking mysterious?  
Nobody, and I mean nobody had the tendency to call him any flattering names.  
Not mamma and papa Seed, not the Duncans, not his occasional conquests - nobody.  
They all thought being affectionate was unnecessary, messy, vulgar and downright needless.  
And now, this stranger at a bar calls his things he's never been called before - what a night.  
The cheap beer was going to his head, he was certain of it, either that, or someone slipped him something.  
He needed to go the bathroom, freshen up and get out of here fast, stomping around as he did and realizing the man followed him.  
The door creaking behind him once the choking, heavy atmosphere of the pub was replaced with the yellowy tiles of an admittedly very uninviting men's room.

 

 

 

Fuck - what was he doing and why precisely?

 

How the hell did he even end up this such at such a short amount of time?

 

If he really need to unwind this much, he really could've found the solution elsewhere.

 

Not here, in this greasy, wretched pig-sty of all places - with someone he didn't even know for more then five minutes.

 

He briefly felt like the stereotypical protagonist of an adult movie where the beautiful woman ordering a pizza decides to pay the delivery man with less then suitable means.

 

 

 

_-"Have at it, love! Proud of ya'! Knew ya had it in ya'! Ain't a perfect church choir boy after all, are we? Thought you'll be saving yourself for marriage, innit? Seems I was wrong."-_

 

 

The man was still chattering, practically teasing him, moaning and grunting out loud when they broke into one of the bathroom stalls and locked the door, sitting the much larger, older Australian on the closed toilet seat and straddling him, feeling his bulge beneath himself - a rather unsightly location for sex, but that's all he had at the moment - struggling to take both off the clothes off and reveal some skin, gasping and breathing as they did - using people as anti-depressants was never a good idea - but it was hardly the first time John used carnal love as a way to at least partially dissociate - ripping the man's shirt off to reveal a rather large, imposing tattoo with a stag's head that said "Buck" on the front that he saw peeking through on torso earlier - Buck - was that his name or something - great, now John just managed to ruin the sudden sense of anonymity he was craving, not denying at the moment that found the ink beautiful, having a couple of markings of his own - only a few as of yet, hidden and not very well visible placing-wise - his profession hardly allowed him to seem, well, unprofessional - and even this encounter was breaking his codex in a sense, but as much as he hated to admit it, getting off and especially when there were possibly no repercussions to be had felt - oh - so very good. Was this the pinnacle of the American dream? Him fucking a stranger in a used, worn bathroom stall? Seems like it. It was some Patrick Bateman-tier stuff.

 

 

The Aussie was far from the shabby, chubby, stereotypical wife-beater he's imagined him as.

Man had a substantially good built for someone drinking at a shitty place like this.

What the hell did he do for a living again - John didn't quite catch it.

 

 

 

_-"Did ya' know that because Anglerfish live in such remote depths of the ocean, it's hard to find one another for mating. When they do come across one another, they need to stick together. Literally. The male bites the female and latches on. Over time, the two actually fuse together, connecting their circulatory systems. Saw it on National Geographics once. Pretty frisky stuff."-_

 

 

 

He man managed to moan through his toothy, shark-like smile, writhing underneath him to position his erect cock unto John's entrance easier so they could ride it out together in a quickie, recounting a stupid anecdote from a nature documentary of all things, like he didn't take this seriously whatsoever and like he was hardly into it - comparing their intercourse to motherfucking fish - not that he was looking for cuddling, understanding and sensitivity from a relative nobody - serving as the last drop of anger in an already full glass inside of John's mind - a fierce thing that must've been bottling up for months, if not years - if not all his life up until this very moment - this wasn't the first time he had intimate congress with a man - a man he barely knew or otherwise - the Duncans had the tendency of telling him homosexuality was an affront to both God and nature and that the punishment for such foul deeds would be a condemnation to an eternity in hell - he's been caught by them before, yes - when he was a child, then later, during adolescence and again, when he was a teenager - beat within an inch of conciousness each and every time, but that didn't rid him of his desires - John found that liked both men and women and that there was just nothing to it - he wanted to experience everything he possibly could - the pleasure, the pain, the comfort, the lack of it - this right here, felt like embracing a natural, ingrained instinct of sorts, just as natural as the Anglerfish this idiot sucking on his nipples mentioned.

 

 

It felt like freedom, in a sense.

 

 

 

_-"Shut the fuck up and go deeper already!"-_

 

 

John managed through a half-lidded gaze, bouncing himself back and forth while grinding on the older man's length, trying to silence him at least for a brief blip, noticing right in that moment their respective eye colors were pretty much the same from up close - this was like a prophetic encounter with the devil who coincidentally carried his visage - worse things happen to people in shady bars - none of which John was terribly afraid of - knives - he carried one of his person everywhere he went - fights - he'd probably personally get into one for the sheer thrill of adrenaline and the chance to experience the rush - catching his some disease or other - he's already been there and done that as well - but, by coincidentally meeting someone who by all means, looked eerily like him in the physical sense was, well, haunting to say the least. John was always religious. All his life. In his own, strange way. That's how the Duncan's taught, molded and raised him. And he believed in omens. Destiny. Things written in the stars. God's will. A higher purpose in life. Things meant to be. So, this union, right when he was at his peek, felt almost preordained, if only for the shortest, most fleeting of seconds before the impression vanished as they both grunted and came, albeit prematurely - not the best setting for this kind of shit. Then again, maybe he was just overthinking things. Even John had to admit that he was fairly touch-starved at times. To the point where mistaking even the most common act of intimacy for something more profound and meaningful then it really was.

 

 

 

A mixture of shame and pride overcoming him when it was done.

He was going to prey for his own salvation later.

Noticing the dog tags the man was carrying.

Tucking them into his pocket so nobody would notice.

The eerie realization felt as crude as the sting of a whip.

God was testing John in the cruelest, most painful of ways tonight.

 

 

 

_-"I had a brother who was a soldier. That's what I've heard last, anyway."-_

 

 

 

John idly mentioned, trying not to feel nostalgic or overly hurt by the idea, standing back up, wiping himself off with a piece of toilet paper, zipping his pants, buttoning his shirt up, fixing and tidying himself to seem as presentable as he could even though no doubt everyone outside could pretty much guess what they did by now, while the man with the Buck tattoo took the time to piss and relieving himself into the same toilet they've consummated the physical needs on - an inappropriate time to re-open old wounds - almost comedic timing - but John was taken back to a distant time, with his brothers - Jacob specifically, only the odd rumor about his oldest siblings whereabouts reaching his ears since he's left Rome with all other contact broken - Jacob could've been married by now - he could've been promoted in rank - he could've been a father of five - five red-haired sons or five red-haired daughters just like him - he could've been divorced - a widower - an eternal bachelor - a farmer somewhere in the rural country-side - living in a beautiful, spacious home with an orchard, a wide, green lawn and a charming white-pickled fence in some peaceful neighborhood riddled with trees - he could've been missing an arm - a leg - he could've been in jail - or he could've been dead and buried alongside old ma' and pa' Seed and John would've never even known - and now this man shows up and stirs his emotions like a boiling kettle-pot.

 

 

_-"What?"-_

 

 

The man questioned in confusion, nearly snorting, pulling his fly up and whistling.

 

 

 

_-"My brother was in the military too. Stationed in Iraq. The Gulf War."-_

 

 

John repeated himself, almost hoping that by some stupid, insane, improbable coincidence -

This nameless creature would snap and say "Ah, yes! I knew him! He's alive and well, that one!"-

Relieving him of his fears and doubts all at once as amazing of a wish-fulfillment as that sounded like ultimately.

Sadly, the world was a big place - and soldiers came and went every day, his brother only a serial number among a million others.

 

 

_-"Poor old sod."-_

 

 

The man with the Buck tattoo responded with good humor, chuckling and John couldn't blame him.

He was, after all, trying to make small-talk with a stranger after a quick romp in a bathroom stall.

 

Who wouldn't find that quasi-humorous?

 

 

_-"Is that what you do for a living?"-_

 

John's curiosity got the better of him, when he blurted his question out, like a hapless child.

Too many coincidences tonight, too many strange, bizarre things all at once.

He couldn't help but wonder what a man like him was doing here.

John wasn't even certain what he himself was doing here.

 

Least of all - this guy.

 

 

 

_-"No, son. I kill."-_

 

 

 

The man answered, seriously, matter-of-factually.

Like the type of sneer that no man merely jesting would ever crack.

 

 

_-"For what?"-_

 

 

John blurted out in a fleeting moment of sheer confusion, unable to stop himself before the line was already uttered, unable to believe, that him, a seasoned lawyer, the best in this whole damn city, probably even the country - a snake-oil salesman by every stretch of the imagination, a two-faced bastard and an overall viper managed to came off that bloody naive through a single question - no wonder Joseph and Jacob used to call him a literal baby before they were taken apart, because he sure as hell felt like one right about now, observing the man he just had sex with a healthy dosage of disdain, curiosity and maybe even interest as he didn't even bother to button his shirt up. Did he just fuck a criminal? Sure, he defended criminals and murderers and rapists and arsonists and armed robbers and scammers in a court of law before, because that was merely business. Being professional. Earning his paycheck by doing what he does best - bullshitting, fabricating, charming and lying to the public, but he never had sex with one before. Never once did the opportunity arise. Well, except, maybe, when the client was unusually handsome, tempting and keen on ensuring that his services does indeed ensure them freedom or a milder sentence through whatever means necessary. And by that, he legitimately did mean whatever means necessary. Who was he kidding? He technically did fuck criminals before. But never one so bold, open and even proud about it. It's taken him completely off guard there and then as he practically lowered the toilet seat, closed it, sat down it and exhaled.

 

 

And then laughed - out loud.

 

 

 

_-"For what!? What do ya' mean for what!? For pickles and potatoes! For money of course, what else - you dense, love? We're past freebies in this economy, eh?"-_

 

 

The man with the Buck tattoo shouted his response back, sounding semi-insulted.  
Swearing off the poor, scared individual crossing his path by accident on the way outside.  
Striding through the bathroom and back out in the bar, disappearing into the night and from sight altogether.  
John Duncan could only proceed sitting in his stall and snorting at some private, elaborate joke like he seldom.  
He guessed the man was partially correct - the economy was in shambles and he hasn't even noticed so far.  
All that he knew is that if their paths ever cross again, however unlikely and impossible that might be.  
He'll say yes to whatever despite barely understanding half of the things the guys said tonight.

 

 

 

 

Nonetheless, he really should ditch the high-lane echelon parties of the upper class crust of Atlanta for shady bars like this more often.

 

You sure meet some interesting people.


End file.
